


Another Fine Mess

by luthorienne



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 13:51:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10537803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthorienne/pseuds/luthorienne
Summary: In which Phil has another unfortunate experience involving a corgi.





	

The aftermath of an explosion, in Phil’s experience, was usually a thundering silence, broken by a cacophony of screaming and cursing and sirens. In this instance, however, the thundering silence was broken by an irritated, “Oh, bollocks.”

Phil stood up and sighed, brushing dust and bits of vegetation out of his hair and off the lapels of his formerly-very-nice suit. Apparently the hedge of bouquets designed to tactfully separate the guests of honour from the hoi polloi had been concealing a not-insignificant amount of explosives. As the sirens and half-hearted groaning began – really, the British were remarkably restrained about this sort of thing – he reached a hand down to assist the Prime Minister to her feet and pluck a shredded daisy from behind her ear. 

“I say, Phillip, this wasn’t on the agenda, what?” 

Phil turned and quirked a rueful half-smile at Sir Rodney Whittington, Private Secretary to a Royal Personage who had, until a few moments ago, been giving a charming and gracious speech to announce the installation of a new high-security Stark Industries vault at the Bank of England. It wasn’t the sort of thing Phil usually found himself involved with, but the British had been a little shirty since the whole Dark Elf fiasco, and Fury had offered the services of SHIELD’s finest – most visibly Phil himself, Captain America, and Clint Barton – to provide security for the Royal Personage. And her corgi. 

Sighing, Phil handed off the still-disoriented Prime Minister to Captain America, whose shield was now liberally plastered with shredded greenery. Pepper Potts, strawberry-blonde tendrils escaping from her French pleat and half a fern protruding from the neck of her suit jacket, clutched at his sleeve with a flawlessly-manicured hand. 

“Phil,” she whispered urgently, “where’s the Qu—“

 

“—ality of accommodations you’re used to, Ma’am, but at least you’ll have a place to sit down.”

The dark had been Stygian, but Clint had managed to hang onto his Starkphone, and although there was no reception inside the vault, his flashlight feature was still working perfectly. He made a mental note to let Stark know the upgrades seemed to be working. He finished piling up bundles of banknotes into a rough approximation of a comfy armchair and helped the Royal Personage sit. The fat corgi, who had been inclined to resent being snatched up and summarily propelled into a bank vault, relented enough to waddle over and settle at his mistress’ feet. She reached down and scratched him between his ears, producing a derpy expression of doggy bliss that Clint kind-of envied. Phil was going to be pissed.

“I very much appreciate your assistance, Mr. Barton, and especially your thoughtfulness in including Reggie in the lifesaving effort.” She gave Reggie a last pat and sat back, handbag in her lap. “I do trust you’re not hurt?”

“Oh, no, Ma’am, I’m a-okay,” he replied, gathering more bundles of banknotes to start constructing a small coffee-table. “I get shaken up more than this, sparring with my teammates every day.”

“Still, I don’t imagine you get blown up every day,” she said, then turned a curious eye on him. “Do you?”

“Not _every_ day, no,” he answered, fluffing the top layer of banknotes a little. Satisfied, he set the Starkphone/flashlight on the coffee table and turned to gather more bundles. A small ottoman would suffice for him to sit on. “I’m just glad you and Reggie are okay.”

__

__

“Entirely thanks to you,” she said with a warm smile. “Now, just to understand our circumstances, Mr. Barton, how long do you think it may be until someone can –“

 

“—open the vault?” Sir Rodney asked curiously. “Because, while I’m sure your agent is taking good care of her, I would feel more comfortable if I could take her into a quiet room and procure a cup of tea, you know.”

Phil turned to Pepper, who was at that moment searching her bodice for stray vegetation and trying to look as if she hadn’t heard the question. 

“Pepper?” he prompted. She gave a last shrug inside the suit jacket, flicking a crushed bit of stem off her lapel, and squared her shoulders, glancing around in an uncharacteristically shifty manner.

“Well, you see, the thing is… It’s designed to work on a timer. That’s the way they wanted it. On a timer.”

“And?” 

“And the mechanism won’t respond for another twenty-four hours.” There was a white, pinched look around Pepper’s mouth and eyes that Phil was pretty sure was mirrored on his own face. 

“I say,” said Sir Rodney after another thundering silence. “So, you’re saying you can’t open it?”

“Not for twenty-four hours, no.”

“Well, you know, she can’t be in there for twenty-four hours, Phillip,” Sir Rodney said firmly. “She’s due to open a seniors’ home in Cheltenham at three.” He shook his head. “It simply won’t do. We’ll have to go to Plan B.” He paused, looking from Phil to Pepper. “You have a Plan B, of course?”

Phil’s Plan B involved copious quantities of bourbon, to be followed by a frank and spirited discussion with Barton about not jumping into vaults with Royal Personages. And their corgis. He sighed. Nothing, in his experience, ever turned out well if there was a corgi in it. There was only one thing that would make today worse, and he could hardly believe he was about to suggest it. Turning to Pepper, he said, “Maybe you’d better call –“

 

“—Tony Stark,” Clint said proudly, “so I’m sure everything will be okay. Tony does really quality work.” He ducked his head. “I’m just sorry it’s not more comfortable for you, Ma’am.”

“Not at all, Mr. Barton; you’ve made it quite pleasant, really.” She patted his hand, much the same way she’d patted Reggie’s head. Clint thought his expression might be mirroring Reggie’s, too. “It seems we need only relax and await developments. Do tell me a bit about yourself. Have you visited London before?”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am, lots of times.” The first time he’d been a newly-minted twenty-something mercenary and taking down a diamond courier with unfortunately adhesive fingers, for a client in Antwerp. But he thought he’d probably better keep that part to himself. “I really like the British Museum,” he offered. They had, among other things, a pretty awesome collection of longbows. 

“Well, that’s a coincidence, Mr. Barton; so do I,” she smiled. “I hope you’ll have time on this trip to visit your favourite exhibits.”

“I hope so, too, Ma’am,” he said, “but Agent Coulson says we’re on a pretty tight schedule and there probably won’t be –“

 

“—time he gets here and gets the vault open, I expect we’ll have missed the window to get to Cheltenham,” Sir Rodney sighed. “Pity, really; there’s usually a nice seedy-cake or some sticky buns at those things.” He straightened, shooting his cuffs manfully. “Still, worse things happen in war, what? And at least this time there are no –“

 

“—elves, Mr. Barton?”

“Oh, no, Ma’am, all the elves were gone before I got here,” Clint assured her, not quite liking the steely glint in the royal eyeballs at the thought of the Dark Elves. He thought it might be prudent not to mention that he’d been brought in to shoot the galumphing monster they’d left behind. “I’ve never even seen an elf. Except in the movies.”

“Well, I think everyone over here will be happy never to see them again,” the Royal Personage commented. “Very destructive creatures, or so I’ve observed.”

“It was a very violent movie,” Clint agreed. “I was surprised because it’s supposed to be a children’s –“

 

“—show up with explosives,” Phil said defensively to Fury, who sounded, even over thousands of miles of satellite transmission, apoplectic. “It’s only a bank, after all.”

“It’s the mutherfuckin’ _Bank of England,_ Coulson! What the hell were you all doing?!?” 

Phil glanced over to where Steve was hovering over the Prime Minister and fanning her with the edge of his shield. He had, of course, produced a handkerchief from some unknowable pocket in the suit and was using it to wipe crushed rose petals off her speaking notes. From this angle, Phil could see that the left side of Steve had a faint green cast, much like Dr. Banner just before a transformation. He took a moment to thank the universe that Banner was still in Manhattan.

“Well, in fairness, Director, MI-6 was providing security before the fact,” he reminded Fury. “Captain America is looking after the PM.” He paused. “And, ah, Barton dove into the vault with, ah –“

“No.” 

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“No.”

“And her corgi.”

There was another thundering silence. Phil cleared his throat.

“Unfortunately, the vault was designed to operate on a timer. Ms. Potts is unable to open it, and she says it can’t be opened for twenty-four hours. So we’ve sent for –“

“No.”

“—Tony Stark.”

Phil hadn’t heard Fury make a sound like that since the last time he’d been shot: a sheer, animal sound of anguish. 

_“Goddammit, Phil!_ Why is it everything I send you people out on turns into a mutherfuckin’—“

 

“—circus, Mr. Barton?”

“Well, yes, Ma’am, that’s pretty much true,” he said, a little surprised her briefing package had been so thorough. “It’s not as much fun as you’d think, but better’n the orphanage, anyhow. They didn’t have much, but they looked after us – me and my brother – and we got to see a lot of places and do a lot of stuff other kids didn’t. I got to spend a lot of time with the animals. We had horses and trained dogs and a tiger – she was pretty old, but she was special.”

“It seems that’s another thing we have in common, Mr. Barton,” said the Royal Personage. “We both love animals.”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am,” Clint agreed. “I read you really like horses and dogs.”

“I confess I have a bit of a weakness for corgis,” smiled the Royal Personage, bestowing another pat on Reggie’s head.

“Me, too,” Clint said, extending cautious fingers for Reggie to sniff. “They’re really smart, and really brave. My handler was a corgi once.” Reggie turned a remarkably Phil-like expression on him, one doggy eyebrow raised, as Clint realized that particular bit of information was probably classified. 

“Well,” said the Royal Personage after a brief pause, “you Americans certainly have very _interesting_ lives.” She reached into a capacious purse. “Tell me, Mr. Barton, do you like to play –“

 

“—cards, is it, Phillip?” said Sir Rodney, shaking his head as he watched Iron Man touch down on the tarmac in the gathering dusk. It had been a long day, apparently, for all of them. To Phil’s eye, Tony’s usual I-am-Iron-Man strut had taken on a certain hangdog quality as he approached Pepper, flipping up his visor. Meanwhile, Sir Rodney was still speaking. “What I mean to say, Philip, is that it seems that every time you lot set foot on British soil, something untoward happens. It’s fate, what?”

“Believe me, it’s no picnic for us, either,” Phil replied, agreeing that a successful interaction with Great Britain really didn’t seem to be in the cards for SHIELD. “We were looking forward to a nice little visit, maybe take Barton to the British Museum. He likes the British Museum.” He watched as the initial conversation between Stark and Pepper devolved into a near-silent but nonetheless vicious fight, with a great deal of arm-waving and emphatic fingerpointing involved, before Stark crossed to the closed vault door and stood studying it for a while, hands on his armored hips. After a moment, he raised a red-and-gold boot and gave the timing mechanism a vicious kick, with which Phil could certainly sympathize. There was another pause, then a deep, metallic grating noise and the sound of steel tumblers retracting. Just before the vault door swung ponderously open, Phil sighed and said, “Now I think I’d just like to go somewhere I can get a big glass of –“

 

“—Gin,” said the Royal Personage magnificently, laying down a large fan of cards before a chagrined Clint. They both looked up at Phil, Sir Rodney, Pepper, Captain America and Tony Stark, all gathered in the doorway to the vault. Phil noted a fat corgi peering around the side of the makeshift card-table at him, wearing the same self-satisfied expression as its mistress. Clint, by contrast, looked a little sheepish.

“Oh, hey, hi, everybody,” Clint said. He lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey, Tony, good to see you. I didn’t think you were coming. Um, Phil? D’you think you can lend me a few bucks? Her Majesty just took me for forty pounds.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely no explanation for this; it just appeared out of nowhere, attacked me in the dead of night and demanded to be posted. An homage to the wonderful writers of corgi fic who've entertained me so much, and to Hugh Grant, who was the inspiration for Sir Rodney.


End file.
